written
by ameliagianna
Summary: JOHNLOCK. Inspired by songs and e.e. cummings poems.


the moon looked into my window

it touched me with its small hands

and with curling infantile

fingers it understood my eyes cheeks mouth

its hands(slipping)felt of my necktie wandered

against my shirt and into my body the

sharp things fingered tinily my heart life

the little hands withdrew, jerkily, themselves

quietly they began playing with a button

the moon smiled [he]

let go my vest and crept

through the window

[he] did not fall

[he] went creeping along the air

over houses

roofs

And out of the east toward

[him] a fragile light bent gatheringly

-e.e. cummings

* * *

When he returned from visiting Sherlock's…

_he would have to admit it sometime_

…Sherlock's grave, he was so emotionally drained that he simply kicked off his shoes and fell into his bed. He didn't linger long in the more public areas of the flat, wary of reliving memories or finding Sherlock's possessions or projects.

He was out like a light…

_much like Sherlock_

* * *

…and began to dream.

John sits up on his bed, noticing the light filtering in from his bedroom window. Beyond the glass, he almost sees…

_it can't be, it can't be him_

_it should be him, it's always been him_

…he _does_ see. Sherlock. In the moon.

And then he's standing at the foot of John's bed. John stands up, confused and irritated.

"Why the fuss?" Sherlock asks, sitting down on the mattress beside John.

"You're dead," John states.

"So?" Sherlock teases.

"You jumped off a goddamn building, Sher!" John blows up, forgetting and using his nick-name for Sherlock.

"Did I?" he asks, smirking.

"Don't—just don't play games with, me, Sherlock." John sits again.

Sherlock's smirk falls into a look of gentle solemnity. "John," he whispers. He reaches out, placing a hand against John's cheek. "The good doctor, always trying to save me."

"I couldn't save you," he murmurs, failing to resist leaning into Sherlock's touch.

Sherlock's thumb brushes over his cheekbone, and his other fingers trace the edge of John's jaw. "But you tried," he says. "And that's what matters."

John sighs and Sherlock's hand travels down, to the collar of his shirt and unbuttons it with little effort. Actually, he has the top two buttons undone before John even realizes, and slides his hand against John's chest, over his heart.

"I miss you," John whispers.

"I know," Sherlock says. "I miss you, too. More than I expected."

"But this is just a dream, isn't it…"

_just a dream, always a dream, only a dream_

"Doesn't make it any less true," Sherlock says, sliding his hand away and once again toying with a button on John's shirt.

"Why, then? Why did you do it?"

"I can't tell you," Sherlock mumbles, head down.

"Why not?"

"Because this is your dream, and you don't already know the answer."

"But you told me you missed me," John says, calling his bluff.

_he doesn't want it to be a bluff, he wants it to be Sherlock_

"That's either because you know or you want to think that," Sherlock whispers, still not meeting John's eyes.

"Goddamn it," John says, tears threatening to fall at any moment. He can feel them. Whether just in the dream or if they're really building in his eyes, he doesn't know—but it's likely the latter. "Sher, God, why did you go and do such a stupid, idiotic thing?"

Sherlock finally looks up at him, smiling sadly. "I don't know, but I'm pretty sure it was to protect you. Only reason, right?"

"No." John's not comforted by these words anymore, because he knows they're more him than Sherlock.

"I have to go," Sherlock murmurs, hand slowly falling from John's shirt. He stands, walks to the window, and turns back to look at John one last time.

"I did love you, you know."

_did you? did you love me as much as i loved you?_

And then he's gone, back into the sky, watching over him from inside the light of the moon.

"I loved you, too," he whispers.

* * *

**A/N: The first in my series of e.e. cummings' inspired Johnlock fics. ANGST. Most of them will be, I figure, because THAT'S WHAT JOHNLOCK IS. Angst. Damn Moffat. But at the same time, IT'S SO GOOD. You know, like Doctor Who. It hurts so good, guys, am I right? Also working on some DW fics as of late, but not really ready to put them out there, yet. Soon, though. SOON. Review? There's **_**plenty**_** more to come.**

**(Any edits I make to the poems will be in brackets, and I plan on restricting my edits to female/****male pronouns.)**


End file.
